"Uh-yes," he said, knowing when it was advisable to bend the truth a little. Under the circumstances he had forgotten Bootsie completely.
"How is my little darling? Did he eat well? Did you talk to him?"
"Yes, indeed. We had a stimulating discussion about American foreign policy and the value of the dollar. When will you be home? Don't forget we have a reservation for dinner at Tipsy's."
"That's why I'm calling, dear. I've been invited to brunch at the Palomino Paddock, and I think I should accept. It's a four-star restaurant, and I've never been there. Do you mind? We can dine at Tipsy's next Sunday." She sounded unusually elated.
"I don't mind at all," Qwilleran said stiffly.
"I'll be home in time to give Bootsie his dinner, and I'll call you then."
"By the way," he said, "obviously you haven't listened to the radio. We've had an unfortunate incident up here."
"No, I haven't heard. What happened?"
"Hilary VanBrook has been murdered."
"Murdered! Incredible! Who did it? Where did it happen?"
"I'll tell you when you return," Qwilleran said. "Enjoy your brunch."
As a point of honor he never broke social engagement, and Polly's defection irked him considerably. She had been partying all night with that Lockmaster crowd; why did she need to stay down there for a mere brunch? If she wanted to eat at a four-star restaurant, he could take her there.
"What do you think of that development?" he asked Koko.
The cat murmured an ambiguous reply, his attention fixed on the berry bushes outside the window, where the cardinal usually made his morning call.
"I'd better hike over to the boulevard and feed the monster," Qwilleran said.
He walked briskly to Goodwinter Boulevard, where Polly's apartment occupied the second floor of a carriage house behind an austere stone mansion. All the houses on the street were built of stone - the coldly impressive castles of nineteenth-century mining tycoons and lumber barons. One such house had been leased by VanBrook, and Qwilleran wondered why the man had needed such grandiose living quarters with fifteen or twenty rooms. As he passed it he noticed that the draperies were drawn on all the windows.
Arriving at Polly's carriage house he unlocked the downstairs door and climbed the stairs to her apartment, where a yearling Siamese was complaining about his tardy breakfast.
"Mea culpa! Mea culpa!" said Qwilleran. "I've been involved in extraordinary circumstances. Here's an extra spoonful." He gave Bootsie fresh water and a quick brushing and then hurried back to the barn in time to catch the phone ringing.
The exuberant voice of Hixie Rice said, "Isn't this exciting, Qwill? We'll all be interrogated! I'm going to invent some lurid details - nothing incriminating - just something to add zest and color to the investigation and attract the media Down Below."
Hixie - a transplant from Down Below, where she worked in advertising and publicity - took pleasure in manipulating the media, both print and electronic.
Qwilleran said sternly, "I suggest you curb your creative impulse in this case, Hixie. We're all faced with a serious situation. Stick to the facts, and don't spread any false rumors to confuse the constabulary or entertain the local residents."
"I love it when you're playing uncle," she laughed. Relenting he said, "Would you like to discuss the matter over dinner? I have a table reserved at Tipsy's."
She made the obvious reply. "Where's Polly?"
"Out of town."
"Good! I'll have you all to myself. Shall I meet you at the restaurant?"
The place called Tipsy's Tavern was located in the town of Kennebeck northeast of Pickax. Driving there to meet his guest, Qwilleran passed through countryside that had seemed wild and mysterious four years before, when he was a transplanted city dweller. Now he felt comfortable with the Moose County scene: stony pastures, potato farms and sheep ranches... dark patches of woods providing habitat for thousands of white- tailed deer... dry autumn cornfields from which clouds of blackbirds rose and swirled in close-order formation as he passed... the rotting shafthouses of abandoned mines, now fenced and posted as dangerous.
The first sign of Kennebeck was a towering grain elevator in the distance, the skyscraper of the north country. Then the watertower came into view, freshly painted with the town symbol. Some enterprising artist, not afraid of heights, had canvassed the county, decorating watertowers. Every community flaunted its symboclass="underline" a pickax, a fish, a sailboat, an antlered buck, a happy face, a pine tree. Kennebeck's tower, like the welcome sign at the town limits, bore the silhouette of a cat. It was a prosperous community with a wide main street and curbstones, plus senior housing, condominiums, and other signs of the times. Yet, in the 1930s Kennebeck had been in danger of becoming a ghost town.
Then, providentially, a blind pig operator from Down Below, hurt by the repeal of Prohibition, returned to his hometown of Kennebeck to open a legitimate bar and steakhouse. He brought with him a white cat with a deformed foot (it made her stagger) and a comical black patch on her head, like a hat slipping down over one eye. Appropriately her name was Tipsy. Her boozy antics and agreeable disposition made customers smile and attracted diners from far and wide. Tipsy's personality, along with the good steaks, put Kennebeck back on the map.
The original restaurant in a log cabin had been enlarged many times during the intervening years, but it still offered casual dining in a rustic setting, and Qwilleran's favorite table was in the main dining room within sight of a larger-than-life oil painting of the founding cat.
He arrived before Hixie and sat at the bar, sipping Squunk water with a twist of lemon. He was on his third drink when his guest arrived, looking harried and tossing her pageboy nervously.
"Quick! I need a martini!" she said. "Make it a double. Then I'll apologize for being late."
The bartender looked questioningly at Qwilleran, then at Hixie, then at Qwilleran again, as if to say, "Where's Mrs. Duncan?"
"You'll never believe this, Qwill," she said in her usual tragicomic style, "but I was driving out Ittibittiwassee Road with not a car in sight - anywhere! And I got in a two-car accident!"
"That's not easy to do."
"Let me tell you how it happened. When I reached Mayfus Road, a car came out of nowhere and ran the stop sign! There were only two of us within ten square miles - and we collided! Why do these crazy things happen to me?"
"You're disaster-prone, Hixie," Qwilleran said sympathetically. She had a long history of getting locked in restrooms, setting her hair on fire, picking the wrong men, and more. "It's fortunate you weren't hurt."
"I had my seat belt fastened, but the passenger side was wrecked, and I waited for Gippel's towtruck to come from Pickax."
"How did you get here?"
"The sheriff dropped me off. He was a real sweetheart, and I adore those brimmed hats they wear! After dinner you'll have to drive me to Gippel's, and they'll give me a loaner."
They sat at Qwilleran's table under the friendly eye of Tipsy and ordered from the no-nonsense menu chalked on a blackboard: steak or fish, take it or leave it. The soup of the day was the soup of the year: bean. The vegetable was always boiled carrots, but they were home-grown, small and sweet. The tiny Moose County potatoes, boiled in their skins, had an Irish flavor, and the steak always tasted like honest meat.
"Have the police knocked on your door?" Qwilleran asked.
"Not yet. Have you talked to anyone?"
"Larry. He worries that someone in the club is guilty, but I think he's wrong." Qwilleran patted his moustache.
"Do you know something that the rest of us don't know?"
"I have a hunch, that's all."
Qwilleran's hunches were always accompanied by a tingling in the roots of his moustache, something he could not explain and refused to discuss. His years on the police beat Down Below, coupled with a natural curiosity, had given him an interest in criminal investigation, and when he was on the right scent there was always that reassuring sensation on his upper lip.